


There's An Art To Everything (Except When There Isn't)

by amfiguree



Category: Supernatural, X-Men (Movies)
Genre: M/M, tiiiiiiny undertone of wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfiguree/pseuds/amfiguree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You see, this is how it happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's An Art To Everything (Except When There Isn't)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the crack-a-thon over at dry_ice on livejournal. Except it's not actually crack. The prompts were: "Inconvenient telepathic bond" and "Bobby turns into water; John drinks some or all of it".

This is how it happens.  
  
John wakes up, and it's six thirty in the goddamn morning. Bobby's still snoring lightly across the room. John sits up, scratches lazily at his stomach, and walks down to the kitchen to get himself some coffee. Logan's the only one down there, nursing his own caffeine, but neither bothers with a grunt in greeting. S'too damn early.   
  
Bobby's gone by the time John gets back to the room, probably off running or training or doing aerial loop-de-loops in some kind of fucking manic ice playground. John sets his cup down on the dresser, then goes to freshen up. Tries to shock the sleep out of his system.  
  
Doesn't exactly work, and John's still rubbing bleary eyes when he stumbles out of the bathroom a couple of minutes later. He reaches blindly for his mug, tips it against his lips.  
  
"No!"  
  
John spits the water out of his mouth. He stares at the cup. He swears he heard the tinny voice from _inside_ it.  
  
  
Five minutes later, John's flung the cracked glass in the trash, and Bobby (all five-foot-eleven of solid, un-liquefied – which is what John is calling it until he figures out what the hell is going on – Bobby) is standing in front of him, hands clenched into fists by his sides.  
  
"The fuck were you doing?" John barks, as he shoves Bobby hard, taken completely by surprise.   
  
"Practicing!" Bobby yells back, his face flushed and his eyes bright with anger, even as he stumbles. "Some of us actually do that sometimes!" Then he winces and presses the heel of a hand to his forehead. "Dammit, John. I didn't think you'd be back so soon."  
  
"No shit, Sherlock," John seethes. "What is this, Bobby? Some kind of new party trick? I could've _swallowed_ you, asshole! Why didn't you say something?"  
  
"Like you wouldn't have laughed in my face," Bobby snaps accusingly, face twisting. "Yeah, turning to water, nice one, Bobby. Now no one will know you piss yourself in the danger room."  
  
John rolls his eyes, but lets up a little because yeah, okay. He probably would've been an asshole about it. They stare awkwardly at each other for a second, John leaning back against the wall, ankles crossed, and Bobby shifting his weight from foot to foot.  
  
"Jesus, John," Bobby says eventually, but most of the shakiness is gone from his voice. "One more second and I could've lost my adam's apple."  
  
John recovers long enough to flick a finger at the column of Bobby's throat. "It's right there, you fucking drama queen."  
  
And that's that.  
  
  
Except that it isn't, of course, because they're X-men and things with them are rarely, if ever, that simple.  
  
When they finally figure out something isn't right, it's a couple of hours later, and John's got a guy on his knees (Justin? Jason?), with his mouth wrapped around John's dick, sucking him off like John's cum is going to be the fucking elixir of life. John fists his hands in the guy's hair, and then Jimmy's humming, low in his throat, using his tongue and his teeth and – "yeah," John rasps, "yeah, like that."   
  
James' hands have crept up John's thighs, and when he takes John even further in – his mouth brushes up against John's balls, holy fucking _Christ_ – John's eyes roll back in his head as he moans, long and low and dirty, his head falling back hard against the wall. That's when he hears, _oh *god*, my eyes!_ ricochet _inside_ his brain, and he nearly wrenches Jordan's head (and his own) off as he spins around.  
  
"Ow!"  
  
“Sorry, sorry,” John replies, on autopilot, as he scans the room again. It's empty save the both of them. His fuck-buddy grumbles under his breath, but tries to go back in for round two anyway. At least until John puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. It's way too fucking creepy with Bobby's voice still ringing in his ear.   
  
John watches as Joshua wipes the back of his hand over his (wet, pouty) mouth, and swears in his head. He's not even hard anymore, dammit. He chalks it up to insufficient sleep and an overactive imagination.  
  
  
John heads back towards his room after that, and the first thing he sees is Bobby pacing, his neck and cheeks bright red. At John's entrance, Bobby's head snaps up. "Which part of me did you swallow?" he demands, almost before John has time to shut the door. "How the hell did I just see that?"  
  
"What?" John says, uncomprehendingly. Bobby's eyes are hard, and the gears in John's head start turning. Fast. He knows Bobby sees it when the situation finally dawns on him; shit, shit, _shit_. He should've known that even a week without sleep wouldn't put hallucinations of _Bobby's voice_ in his head during sex. It just hadn't seemed so impossible at the time. It's not like Bobby isn't attractive, not like John doesn't _look_. Fucking hormones, man.  
  
Then Bobby corners him – actually herds him into a corner and fucking _crowds_ him – and John has never felt the couple of inches that Bobby has on him so acutely. "Which part of me did you swallow?" he repeats, angrily. His face is pinched, fear and fury warring for dominance.  
  
"How the hell would I know?" John shoots back, shoving Bobby hard enough that the iceman has to take a step back. Inwardly, he's panicking, and Bobby's proximity is just making things worse. The idea of having any part of Bobby _anywhere_ inside his body (that doesn't have to do with sex) is giving him hives. "Jesus _Christ_ , Drake. Can't you tell?"  
  
Bobby's indignant expression fades almost entirely at that, and his voice catches when he says, "I don't know." Even with the distance between them, John can see the way Bobby's hand is trembling as he rakes it through his hair. "I feel fine. It doesn't feel like I'm missing anything." Then Bobby pales, and his eyes grow wide as his hands fly to the waistband of his jeans.  
  
The guilt John's been feeling vanishes. "I _sipped_ , Bobby," he snarls. "Unless you buy your condoms two sizes too large, I don't think your dick is in any real danger." Bobby's gaze drops low on John's body at that almost instinctively, blushing even harder, and John's anger dissipates into something else entirely. He can practically read Bobby's mind. He cocks his hip, pointedly, raising an eyebrow when Bobby's expression flickers. “What, Bobby? Didn’t get a good enough look the first time?”   
  
"Oh, _god_ ," Bobby moans, tearing his eyes away and burying his face in his hands as he collapses onto his bed. "Oh god, I don't even know what to be embarrassed about first."  
  
  
There's a tense, awkward period between the two of them after that. They stop hanging out after class, and their bedroom is too still in the silence; Bobby doesn't make it to bed till after John's asleep, and he's gone by the time John wakes up the next morning. No one really pays John any attention, though, so the tension goes unnoticed. Bobby doesn't even look at John unless he has to. In fact, it takes Bobby several days to be able to meet John's eyes again --  
  
(and yeah, it's not like John's helping things, the way he's going out and screwing someone new every night, but it's not like he's ever tried to make things easier for Mr. Conservative – not since the one time Bobby had caught him handcuffed to the bathroom shower, humping some random guy up against the wall – and he doesn't see why he should start now.  
  
John even remembers the first time Bobby had walked in on him having sex, two days after they'd first become roommates.   
  
"Jesus, John! Fucking warn a guy!" he'd said, his shoulders going completely rigid as he turned away.  
  
John's always been impressed by Bobby's ability to put repulsion in almost anything he says, but in situations that involved him with his jeans around his ankles and his hands on a stranger's tits, it'd seemed a little less remarkable.  
  
The girl – he doesn't even remember her name – actually _purred_ at him, her eyes fluttering open. Damn, but she'd been gorgeous, blonde and lithe and the fucking bluest eyes he'd ever seen.  
  
"Fuck," Bobby repeated, back still turned.  
  
John had thrown his head back and laughed, then, because yeah, that was pretty much what he was doing.  
  
And his only other alternative had been to take a fist to Bobby's fucking self-righteous face.)  
  
\-- but anyway, it's several days later, and that's when Bobby finally says, "We can't keep doing this, John."  
  
And John, albeit reluctantly, agrees. Having Bobby's choked, pained whimpers reverberating in his head was funny and vindictive the first four times it happened, but then it just distracted him with thoughts about how Bobby might sound in other uncomfortable, but decidedly rewarding, situations, which just pissed him off. John's pretty sure he's going to give both Bobby and his fuck buddies a complex if he slips and accidentally calls one of them Drake.   
  
  
They come up with a plan later that evening. This thing between them isn't hurting anyone – although Bobby vehemently argues that point for a good five minutes – so they're going to hold off telling the Professor unless it spirals out of control, or they hit a 90-day mark. John doesn't know why they pick 90 days; the number just kind of comes up.  
  
The plan's not a surefire thing, it's not even _good_ , but it gives them some small measure of comfort, and John figures that's all they really need it for. They've worked out that their current psychic situation was brought on by whatever little 'Essence a la Bobby' John swallowed the other day, and that the connection only kicks in when John's having sex. Any kind of sex.   
  
Bobby points out that it might work in reverse, too, that John might be able to see certain... private activities when Bobby chooses to engage in them.  
  
"But you've never engaged in shit," John cracks, before laying a sympathetic hand on Bobby's shoulder. "You know saving yourself for marriage is the bride's job, right?"   
  
"Fuck off," Bobby mutters, and John can feel muscle tense beneath his touch.   
  
  
So things pretty much return to normal after that. They're talking again, hanging out, and the world goes back to spinning on its usual axis. Then John realizes that Bobby's pretty much immune to the sex part of things a little while later, when Bobby starts talking to John while John's taking it up the ass in the back of some guy's car. It's a vintage 67 Chevy Impala, beat up and scratched but still every part John's wet dream on the inside, and he thinks there might be a metaphor in that.  
  
 _That is a sweet ride, dude,_ Bobby says, almost idly, while John's being stretched by three long fingers.  
  
"Yeah," John grits out, just as the guy – is it Dean? – slams into him, hard, and John's fingers dig into leather.  
  
"You like that?" Dean growls, his voice low and whiskey-smooth.  
  
 _You know, you can tell a lot about a guy from his car,_ Bobby adds.   
  
"Yeah," John says again, and then Dean's rocking his hips, and his hand comes over John's side, callused fingers moving quick and clever over John's dick, and John's mouth goes completely dry.  
  
  
Dean's only in town for a couple of days, working on a job. John doesn't ask, and Dean doesn't volunteer any answers, but they meet up every night while he's there. They don't waste any time on talking, or drinking, or foreplay, but the sex is always good, always – god, yeah, fucking pretty mouth, touch me right there, now, now, _now_ , motherfucking cocktease – and Bobby talks to him through most of it.  
  
John actually finds himself replying, just one-word answers, simple 'yes'es or 'no's or 'maybe's, squeezed in between a litany of curse words and quiet moans. Dean doesn't comment, but he does give John an odd look the first time it happens. John has to shove his tongue into Dean's mouth so he doesn't do anything stupid when Bobby snorts out a laugh.   
  
When he comes, it's to Bobby saying, _He's pretty, y'know. Pity he's not sticking around._ John's pretty sure he's imagining the smugness in Bobby's voice.  
  
  
Later, Dean buys John a beer despite the fact that John's still underage. That's how John knows they won't be seeing each other again, and he feels an pang of actual regret at that, tries to pay attention to their idle chat, at least until he figures out that Dean is just as distracted as he is, obviously waiting for someone else to show up.  
  
John's smile twists. The only thing worse than knowing that Dean's been using him as a substitute is the realization that he's been doing the same damned thing.   
  
He isn't sure what it says about him that he's having sex just to hear Bobby's voice in his head, other than that he's a perverted bastard.  
  
  
He does it for another week, anyway.  
  
  
But John's always had a short fuse, and by the end of that week, he's sick of settling for a cheap imitation of the real thing. So he's pretty pissed off with Bobby. With himself, really, but it's easier to take it out on someone else.  
  
It doesn't take much. All Bobby has to do is come into the room with some stupid action flick that they've seen a million times and John's at his throat, snarking about privacy and can he have a night off from all the goddamn stupidity, _please_.  
  
Bobby's surprisingly volatile, and he starts yelling about how John's not the one putting up with pornography in his fucking brain every night, so he can just shut up and spend one night doing something normal before Bobby goes blind.  
  
"Nothing about this is _normal_ , Ice boy!" John hisses.  
  
"I've noticed!" Bobby rages. "But unless you've figured out how to fix this, you either watch the damn movie, or fucking blow me, John, because I'm sick of the free shows!"  
  
Turns out Bobby isn't as immune to the sex as John thought he was, and John isn't quite as put off by the idea of blowing Bobby as Bobby thought he would be. Not that John manages to prove all that. He only gets as far as shoving his hand down Bobby's jeans and crushing their mouths together before he hears, _What the *fuck*_ in his head, and then Bobby's pushing him away and finishing the rest of that sentence out loud: "Is that supposed to mean?"   
  
John opens his mouth.  
  
But Bobby just shouts, "I'm not one of your fucking sex toys, John!" and storms out of the room, back rigid and fists clenched by his side.  
  
John doesn't go after him.  
  
  
It's been years since John's been with a hooker. But he buys himself a couple that night, fucks them long and hard on Bobby's desk, just to piss him off. Papers go flying everywhere, shortly followed by stationery and notebooks, and that's the highlight of John's night. He figures he should take life's pleasures where he can. He even gets the hookers to make out with each other a little, with one of his hands on the girl's ass, and the other hot on the back of the guy's neck, just to mess with the goody-two-shoes.  
  
Bobby doesn't say a word the entire night.  
  
In the morning, John sits directly across Bobby at the breakfast table, wearing the most smugtastic grin he can muster up. Only Bobby doesn't look up from his cereal, not once, but even with his head dipped, John can see the flush riding high on Bobby's cheeks, dusting his face with color.  
  
  
They keep up the non-speaking for the rest of the afternoon. At least, Bobby keeps busy ignoring John, and John keeps busy pretending not to notice. But John's never been any good at avoidance, and guilt is starting to gnaw at the pit of his stomach. He's never been any good at ignoring that either.  
  
It takes an hour, but he finally manages to catch Bobby alone, when everyone else has gathered to watch the last episode of some soap that Piotr swears by. The Russian will watch anything. Bobby's been coerced into getting popcorn for the girls, and John slips out to join him in the kitchen before anyone else notices.  
  
"Look," he says, as soon as he's shut the kitchen door, and Bobby whirls around to meet him, one hand on the popcorn bowl. "If I'd known you were going to be such a pussy about the threesome, I wouldn't have fucking done it, okay?" Which is the closest John ever gets to apologies that he actually means.   
  
Bobby looks confused, and John can see him saying, "that's not it," before the words are even out of his mouth, so okay, they're going to talk about it, then. About that other stupid, _stupid_ thing. "If it's about the kiss, fuck it, Drake. What, you've never kissed a guy before?" Bobby shakes his head, and John pauses mid-rant, disbelief written all over his face. "What, you've _never_ \--?"  
  
"No," Bobby replies. "No, no, it's – I'm not even talking about -- wait, why would you even think that I have?"  
  
"Passing rite of life," John hazards. "Christ, Bobby. So you haven't..."  
  
"Would you stop asking me that?"  
  
 _Shit_ , John thinks. _Shit, of course he's pissed._ Aloud, he says, "Listen, Drake, it's no big deal, man. It was the one fucking time, it's just this weird psychic shit that's happening, you know? It's fucking with my head, and it's not like we're gonna start buying each other flowers, or even--"  
  
"Christ, John," Bobby interrupts, setting the bowl of popcorn loudly on the table. "Just – shut up. It's not – that's not it." He looks down, mutters at the floor. "Did you see me last night?"  
  
John raises an eyebrow, thrown off-kilter. "I don't know if you've noticed, but we sleep in the same room."  
  
Bobby flushes hotly as he lifts his eyes. "Shut up," he snaps. "I mean, did you _see_ me last night? When I was--" He makes a crude gesture with his hand; John hadn't been sure he'd even actually known it before this. "You know. 'Cause I didn't hear you at all, so--"  
  
"What?" John blinks. And then the weight of what Bobby's actually asking sinks in. " _No_! Christ, Bobby."   
  
"Oh," Bobby says, and then he snaps his mouth shut. Suddenly, he looks absolutely mortified.  
  
John considers this for a moment. Thinks about the fact that until last night, Bobby hasn't had sex – hasn't even jerked off – ever since this started, and the fact that he's practically gone out and rubbed it in Bobby's face every night. Goddamn, the man is a saint. "Huh," John says at length. "I guess this isn't a two-way thing after all."  
  
"No," Bobby agrees, eyes fixed on a point just over John's shoulder. John can't decide if he sounds disappointed, or relieved. Or if he doesn't sound like anything, and all that subtext is just John's own wishful thinking. "Guess not."  
  
They're silent for a moment. Then: "What were you saying about a threesome?"  
  
John looks over at Bobby's question and frowns.  
  
  
It takes a while, but eventually they figure out that their bond – which is what Bobby insists on calling it – has worn off (which means, to John's chagrin, that there's no real way to tell if it _was_ a two-way street after all). John figures he pissed Bobby out of his system some time during the last couple of days. That, or his mutant body took care of the impurities in its bloodstream all on its lonesome. Whichever the case, he doesn't have a part of Bobby's psyche in his head anymore, and he doesn't miss it at all.  
  
It's just - sometimes it feels like it's been forever already, and John's gotten used to having a presence in his head that isn't his own. No one else notices, of course; it's not like he's _crazy_ or anything. But he catches himself sometimes, frozen (ha!) in the little moments: a slight cock of the head before he slides into a random waitress from the bar, waiting for Bobby's _aw, come_ on, _John. Her?_ , or a pause before he folds to his knees in some bathroom, his hands on warm hips, gauging to see if he can be quick enough that Bobby won't realize what's happening till it's started.  
  
It's kind of annoying.  
  
  
Bobby doesn't seem to feel the change, though. They're still pretty much best friends. They clock in a couple of hours in the Danger Room together every week, Bobby helps him cover whenever he skips out on a class, and John puts on his best porn every night after Bobby pretends to have fallen asleep. He jerks off quick and quiet under the covers to nothing but the too-bright images on tv and the sound of his own ragged breathing in the dark.   
  
It's kind of fucking lonely.  
  
  
This is how it happens.  
  
It's a Wednesday night two weeks later, and John's alone. Has been for a while now. Bobby's out somewhere; John had been too busy brooding to ask where he was going.  
  
He's sitting at his desk, laptop open in front of him, browsing porn sites and thinking about being fucked in the backseat of the Impala, though not necessarily by Dean.  
  
John scowls, then, refusing to entertain that train of thought. He lifts his coffee mug, but it's empty, and his expression darkens further as he pushes up from his seat to get a fresh shot from the kitchen.  
  
When he gets back to the room, Bobby's still gone, but there's a glass of liquid beside his laptop that he's certain he didn't put there. A small note's attached to it, with just one word written across it in Bobby's barely legible scrawl:   
  
_Sip_.


End file.
